


Eros and Thanatos

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Graveyard Sex, Hand Jobs, Other, Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12116781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: There's nothing like a romantic stroll in Paris in autumn. Unless that romantic stroll includes a detour through a cemetery."What is it they say about cemeteries? 'There's nothing like Death to make you feel live'?""Do I make you feel alive, little bird?""More than anything."





	Eros and Thanatos

Paris had slipped on her orange coat as September passed by, green foliage giving way to a whole array of colours. The air had grown colder, and the sky greyer, but nothing seemed to mar the beauty of the city in autumn. If anything, the strong guffs of wind and the temperature drop drove the tourists away, blowing them to the nearest café for a bit of warmth, while Parisians finally got to call the city theirs again. Jehan pitied them, those tourists who only seemed interested in the things they had seen a hundred times at the back of tourism brochure. They never got to discover the really interesting parts of the city, only those they already knew. Paris wasn't meant to be seen; Paris was meant to be explored.

There were very few tourists outside that afternoon. The dark clouds gathering in the sky must have been some kind of bad omen to them, confining them indoors in museums or the like. Jehan noticed how crunchy the leaves were under their feet with delight. Rare were the days when those leaves weren't trampled by a thousand pairs of shoes before their own. Jehan smiled to themself, calculating their steps as to step on the crunchiest leaves on sight. It was music to their ears.

“Why are you smiling?” Montparnasse asked beside them.

“I've missed autumn,” they said, smiling even more.

Montparnasse gave the hand he was holding a light squeeze. He too was glad autumn had rolled around, Jehan could tell. Autumn meant he could wear his black coat and leather gloves again. No compromise between fashion and comfort. One of the said gloves was tucked in the pocket of said coat, while the other was on Montparnasse's free hand. Montparnasse's other hand didn't need the extra layer, anyway. Jehan's palm was enough to warm it up.

A cold wind blew in the capital that day, agitating branches and lifting Jehan's skirt. Thigh-high socks kept most of their legs warm, only leaving a small section exposed. They didn't mind the cold. They'd been waiting for thigh-high socks for months, and no amount of daught would keep them to wearing them. Montparnasse wasn't the only one who subscribed to autumnal fashion. They didn't care about the attention it drew either. They had not for a long time, now.

Officially, Jehan was on their way to the Musain, while Montparnasse merely accompanied them. Unofficially, they were taking a stroll, taking longs detours rather than short cuts. The others would start without them. There would be other meetings, but perhaps this stroll was one of a kind. Better enjoy it while it lasted.

Their steps led them to the iron gates of a cemetery, where the ground was strewn with orange leaves that clashed with the headstones darkened with time and moss. Jehan gave Montparnasse's arm a tug to make him stop walking.

“If we cross through here, we'll get to the Musain quicker,” Jehan said.

“Who says I want to get to the Musain quicker?” Montparnasse snickered.

Jehan took a couple steps forward, gently pulling on Montparnasse's hand.

“Come on, let's look at the headstones.”

There was something both eerie and comfortable about cemeteries in autumn, as though they belonged to that season. It was quiet, no mourners on sight. Jehan and Montparnasse walked amongst the headstones, looking at the dates and epitaphs. Some bore photographs on them, black and white pictures embedded in medallions. Some had no inscriptions at all. It was enough for them to start making them up. Dear sister. Dear brother. Dear human being. They laughed at a couple of names. Jehan made a bad pun or two. The dead were a tough crowd, but at least they never gave bad reviews.

At some point, Jehan let go of Montparnasse's hand to tidy some plastic flowers that decorated a tomb. Montparnasse went on without them, walking up the next row of headstones, his fingers distractedly brushing the stone. Jehan glanced up at him and smiled to themself. He looked unreal like this, all clad in black with his long coat, his dark hair tousled by the wind. There was something there, a smile, a metaphor, the stuff of sonnets waiting to be put dow on paper. When the poet loves the muse, everything feels like poetry.

Suddenly, there was something more in the air than the threat of a storm. There was electricity, too. And Jehan could feel it flowing throughout their body as they gazed at their muse.

They walked the few strides separating them, their attention focused on Montparnasse's features rather than the scenery.

“You look very good today,” they said, their coy tone betraying their playful mood.

“I look very good always,” Montparnasse corrected, though he couldn't help the little smile that lifted the corners of his lips.

“I know,” Jehan conceded, their fingers playing with the lapel of his coat, smoothing the fabric to better clutch it afterwards. “There's just something about this place. It suits you.”

Montparnasse quirked a sculpted eyebrow, feigning bewilderment. Jehan looked at him through their lashes, the way they knew he liked.

“Dead people suit me?”

“No,” they chuckled. “But you know, the atmosphere. Can't you feel it?” Their hands sneaked into his coat, their fingertips playing on the fabric of his shirt, brushing his ribs ever so slightly. If the shift in Montparnasse's breath was any indication, he was feeling it too. “What is it they say about cemeteries? 'There's nothing quite like death to make you feel alive'.”

“Do I make you feel alive, little bird?”

His tone had shifted too. His voice was lower, smoother. Jehan felt an arm winding around their waist, pulling them closer against him. There was a spark burning in Montparnasse's eyes. Jehan could feel their lips itching for his.

“More than anything else.”

Short muffled breaths broke the quietude of the cemetery. Each kiss called for another, only harder, heavier, teeth meeting flesh and nails grazing skin and fabric. Jehan could feel Montparnasse smile against their lips, with that sultry expression they knew too well. It faltered when his back hit the wall of a nearby mausoleum, only to sharpen a second later.

“Would could get cursed for this,” he reminds them as they ditch their bag to the side.

“I won't tell the dead if you don't,” Jehan counters, breathless, before pinning him back against the stone with another kiss.

Gods knew Jehan believed in these things, but they doubted the dead would mind. They say the only things you regret in life are those you never got to do. Fucking in a cemetery ought to be one of those. Surely the dead would understand.

Quickly, Montparnasse's hands went from Jehan's waist to their thighs, reaching under their skirt, grabbing handfuls of flesh and wool alike. The cold touch of leather left blazing trails on their skin. The growing heat in Jehan's abdomen flared up, dictating them to press their hips together, ever closer. Montparnasse's grip tightened. Before they knew it, they'd traded places with him, the cold hard stone biting deliciously into their back. Instinctively, they knotted their legs around Montparnasse's hips. They felt him rock against them, the bulge of his cock rubbing against their underwear, drawing a moan out of them.

“Fuck me,” they whispered against his lips. No. They demanded.

If Montparnasse had been feeling particularly wicked that day, he would have made them wait for it. He would have pushed them further, made them beg before granting their request. But today was not that sort of day. Montparnasse made a humming sound and held Jehan against the stone with his hips. The hem of Jehan's underwear slid along their thighs, and they fumbled to reach Montparnasse's trousers to undo them. Their movements were rushed and clumsy, but it only fuelled them further. In their haste, Jehan's eyes met Montparnasse's, and immediately deciphered the unvoiced question they read there.

“In my bag. The inside pocket” they said, their voice somewhat raspy.

Their feet returned the ground as Montparnasse let go to grab what they needed. It felt weird, standing like this, their underwear halfway down their legs, both cold and burning up. They wiggled awkwardly out of their underwear and pick it up before it could touch the ground and the dirty leaves. Montparnasse let out a little laugh as he retrieved a small bottle of lube and a condom from their bag.

“Did you plan this?”

“I'd planned to wait for after the meeting, actually,” Jehan said. “I'd already planned what to text you to rile you up and all, to get you hard by the end of the meeting.”

“Hence the skirt.”

“Hence the skirt,” they confirmed.

They looked intently as Montparnasse loosened his trousers, his belt hanging nonchalantly from his hips.

“What changed your mind, then?”

“I can't resist pretty boys who like reading headstones.”

The warmth of Montparnasse's body soon protected Jehan against the cold autumn air. His gloveless hand slipped under their skirt to stroke them, making Jehan weak at the knee. It was hard to stand when all they wanted was to melt into his touch. They reclined against the wall for support and bucked into his hand, a needy whine dying against Montparnasse's lips. Carefully, they tucked their underwear into the pocket of his coat.

“You're the devil, Jean Prouvaire,” he purred against their skin.

Soon, their touches grew more eager, more desperate. Jehan pushed down Montparnasse's trousers enough to wrap their fingers around his cock, their restlessness mirroring Montparnasse's. Montparnasse picked up the bottle of lube and began preparing Jehan, careful not to let his haste rush his movements. They were on edge. Both of them. Short breaths, heated whispers, muffled sounds of pleasure. Each second apart felt like forever. Jehan could feel the tension running through their body, ready to snap.

As though trapped in a fever dream, Jehan saw themself putting the condom on Montparnasse. Their feet left the ground. There was heat, a slight feeling of pressure, and then, relief.

Jehan could feel it all. The wind blowing in their hair and Montparnasse's hot breath against their neck. The harshness of the stone against their back and the softness of Montparnasse's chest against their own. The bite of the leather glove on their thigh. They could hear leaves falling, ravens crowing. The sky rumbled angrily overhead. Their hushed moans merged with Montparnasse's. One breath. One bliss. One sound growing deeper, keener, rougher.

They were close. Montparnasse's nails dug into their flesh, as though he was afraid he might let go. He thrust harder, rolling his hips frantically until a gasp flew out of Jehan's lips. He shivered against them, drawing out a ragged breath. His legs were shaking when he finally let go of Jehan.

“You okay?” Jehan whispered, cupping Montparnasse's jaw both for comfort and support.

He nodded faintly and mouthed a silent “You?”. He looked wrecked, his cheeks flushed and forehead damp from all the energy he'd burnt.

“I'm good,” Jehan panted.

Chests going up and down, almost gasping for air, they both reclined against the mausoleum wall to catch their breaths. The dark clouds gathered in the sky had broken into a drizzle, slowly soaking up their clothes. When they felt up to it, Jehan reached for their back and took a pocket of tissues.

“You're going to be late,” Montparnasse pointed out after glancing at his watch.

“So late.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

Jehan shrugged with a little smile.

“That I forgot the time while watching you, I suppose. It wouldn't be the first time.”

“Or the last.”

Once cleaned up and decent, they made their way out of the cemetery hand in hand. Jehan's hair was a bit messy, but nothing they couldn't blame on the wind. The meeting had already started when they finally got to the Musain. Jehan caught their reflections in the window. They looked like the storm had taken them by surprise. Montparnasse pressed a kiss on their cheek.

“Text me while you're in there, okay?” he asked, a playful smile dancing on his lips.

“You know I will.”

Montparnasse stayed outside as Jehan joined their friends in the café. He'd come back for them in a few hours but in the meantime, he'd wait out the storm somewhere warm. The wind was blowing harder as he walked up the street. His hand dug into his coat pocket for his gloves but only met a soft material. Montparnasse furrowed his brows and pulled on the fabric. Jehan's underwear stuck out of his pocket. Montparnasse smiled to himself. Jean Prouvaire was the devil indeed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You know me, it was only a matter of time before I ended up writing some graveyard sex for these two. It's like honey and bees, those things go together.  
> Also I do not recommend you doing the do in a cemetery because you know. Bacterias and STDs and stuff. But ya know, for the same of fiction and good ol' smut, let's forget about that for a second.  
> Also also, it's always a pleasure to portray these two as equally kinky. Sweet innocent Jehan has more than one trick up their sleeve, don't be fooled, that little Keats of a person has quite the dirty mind.
> 
> Please, please, please, do leave a comment if you appreciated this fic! Kudos are amazing but reading about your experience is rewarding beyond measure ♥  
> For more smutty and Jehanparnasse goodness, hit me up @Just-French-Me-Up on tumblr!


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